


Desideratum

by alovelyburn



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Brian Kinney (in absentia), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 09:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18332849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alovelyburn/pseuds/alovelyburn
Summary: For at least two people all roads run through Brian Kinney.





	Desideratum

**Author's Note:**

> Friendship, romance and everything in between. (I can't believe this story is 13 years old.)

**1\. if you keep your silencer on**

I'm sure that you've been briefed.  
My absorption lines, they are frayed,  
And I fear my fear is greater than my faith.  
But I walk the missionary way. You always felt like suede.  
There are days I am your twin, peek-a-boo,  
Hiding underneath your skin.  
- _Suede_ , Tori Amos-

Nothing about Justin fucking Taylor setting up camp in his old room doesn't annoy Michael. The fresh-young-teen "in" fashions scattered across the floor when Michael comes by to pick up his old journals? Annoying. The fact that the journals are in the box on the left when he suspects he left them in the box on the right? Annoying. The fact that he can't be sure whether he's being paranoid or Justin is being a big snoop? Double annoying. The soda bottles on the kitchen counter and finding Justin at the coffee table in the living room whenever he visits his own mother? _Triple_ annoying.

That said, all things are not equal and there are two things that get under his skin more than a million cracked open journals or stains on his Captain Astro curtains.

 _First_. Michael doesn't like the many nights of driving back to David's house (his house? Their house) alone because Brian decided to cut out on Babylon early, throw the kid a bone, and take him home.

 _Second._ Michael doesn't like the nights when he has to take a detour on the way home to drop Justin off at the Novotny Boarding House for Stray Queers because Brian _didn't_ decide to throw the kid a bone and take him home.

Tonight, he can already tell, is a night for Annoying Thing Number Two. Which means it's a good thing David had an early morning appointment; the only thing worse than driving with a sullen and rejected Justin sitting in the front seat is riding with a sullen and rejected Justin sitting in the back seat while David drives, stewing in his irritation and chewing holes in his tongue to keep from pointing out that this is All Brian's Fault. Not that it isn't.

Standing by the bar, glass in hand, Michael watches Brian survey the crowd for fuckable strangers. It's still possible that this will be an Annoying Thing Number One night – Brian's taken to falling back on the comfortable, familiar, and blond if there's nothing more appealing, these days. That's kind of annoying too, actually.

Nothing about Justin fucking Taylor doesn't annoy Michael.

Half a drink later, he notices Justin leaning against the other side of the bar, staring into the crowd after Brian, watching him hunt. It's a little obscene how young the kid looks sometimes, depending on his sweater, or his t-shirt. The color of his sneakers (oh, sorry, _athletic shoes_ ). Those times, Michael has to remind himself that twelve years ago he was 18 too, and twelve years ago he was the one leaning against the bar and watching Brian choose between Big-Muscles-No-Dick and Big-Dick-Bad-Blowjobs. Maybe that's why suddenly, Justin seems a little less annoying and a little more kind-of-sweet.

A half hour later Brian disappears , leather jacket hanging over his shoulders and silver keys flashing in the blue-white lights as he waves goodbye. Behind him, Big-Muscles-Big-Dick-Small-Brain trails like an exceptionally hungry (not to mention steroid-enhanced) puppy dog, hard-on visible through his too-tight jeans. Michael orders another drink. It's the second and last of the evening.

And maybe it's the scattered shadows gathering around Justin's feet, or the way Brian didn't even look the poor kid's way as he left, but suddenly Justin seems a little less kind-of-sweet and a little more kind-of-lonely.

Michael swallows down his drink and joins him, pre-formulated speech already forming on his lips. He's barely opened his mouth when Justin looks up at the ceiling, into the swirling lights, and says, "I know. He's not my boyfriend. That's becoming abundantly clear." A cigarette dangles between his fingers - Justin takes a drag, and glitter drifts down and scatters across its surface and on his face. "I just want to go home."

Michael looks at the floor, sparkling with fallen glitter and confetti, dusted over with spilled white powder, and really Michael wants to take him home. Not to the Novotny house, but to his real home – back to tree-lined streets with musical chimes for doorbells and BMWs or whatever's in for the affluent WASP set these days. But it's too late. Once Brian gets his hooks in you're never really innocent again, and you can never go back. He knows this because he's spent a lot of time feeling like shit about Brian's fucking hooks.

"Yeah," he says, drawing his keys out of his back pocket, "Okay, I'll take you back to Ma's house."

They say goodbye to Ted (he's always easy to find, by the bar or the catwalk, staring at the twink corner on the left, or the gymrats on the right) and leave a goodbye message for Emmett (who's probably in the backroom giving someone his best swirling-tongue technique). Michael leads the way outside, Justin trailing behind with his hands in his red jacket pockets.

Michael's car is shiny gold, ostentatious, and just asking for a carjacking. Emmett calls it the cock-mobile for reasons he's never been entirely explicit on. It's also got a large dent on the driver side door from when some tweaked out queen sideswiped him pulling off down Liberty Avenue, and now the door sticks so it takes a few seconds to open. Justin waits patiently by the passenger side. If nothing else, he's got impeccable manners.

Justin drops his cigarette and smashes it into the pavement as Michael opens the door. "He told me he'd probably find someone else, and that I shouldn't bother skipping my homework tonight."

It's not really surprising. Sitting in the driver's seat, Michael unlocks the passenger side and turns the keys in the ignition. The engine, still new and practically unused, purrs. "Yeah? So what are you doing here?"

"I don't know," Justin says as he climbs inside. "I keep thinking he'll change his mind and realize what's in front of his face. That he'll understand he doesn't need—" the sentence drops off, but it doesn't really need to continue. Both of them know where it ends, anyway.

It's 2am, and the night is so big and multicolored and silent that Michael can't stop thinking. He thinks of the allure and the mythology of romance, and wonders if Justin watches a lot of Julia Roberts movies. They say the hooker with the heart of gold is a cliché, but really Brian kind of is one, except without the money and the crying during sex. Turning a corner he thinks, well, actually he'd probably be the Richard Gere character – all rich and designer clothes and hot and closed off. And then Justin would be Julia, except Justin doesn't sleep around that much, at least comparatively, and – he almost misses his turn and decides it's probably a fucked up metaphor and he's definitely put too much thought into it.

Justin taps rhythms on the armrest and stares out the window as they go.

"The thing is," Michael says, just to break the silence, not even knowing which thing he means this time. "Um, the thing is. Brian, he's—"

"You told me. A selfish prick who doesn't do boyfriends and doesn't care about anyone but himself."

Michael almost wants to laugh, because he's said it so often he can't even remember all the times he's had to. He remembers saying it to Justin, though, on the street outside Woody's. It seems like a long time ago. "Yeah. And he doesn't—"

"Believe in love?" Justin looks at him briefly, then turns away. "He believes in fucking. _He_ told me that." Staring out the window, Justin says, "It's bullshit, though. I told you before, he loves _you_. Even if he won't say it."

Michael's hands grip the steering wheel just a little bit tighter. "Well... maybe. But that's different, we're best friends. He—"

"He doesn't say it, though. He won't admit it. So that means he's wrong, or he's lying."

Michael glances at Justin, streetlights streaking across his face.

(Then again, the time between Brian meeting some guy and Brian throwing the guy out, finally and decisively, is best measured in dog years. So in a way Justin's been hanging around for like five years now.)

"If he's wrong about that," Justin says, "He can be wrong about me, too."

Sometimes, Justin speaks with a conviction so unwavering, so strong, that it has to come from somewhere in his gut. Maybe deeper. Maybe from his toes, or the soles of his feet. It reminds Michael of that time in 11th grade when Brian stood in front of him, all threadbare $5 t-shirt and discount socks and no-name jeans, and said to watch, just watch – said he'd be rich, one day, a millionaire. And he'd rise above the screaming and the bruise across his upper arm. Said it so strong, Michael started to believe in dreams.

"He was upset when he thought I was going to Dartmouth." Justin rolls down the window, and the warm outside air seeps in through the cracks. "He cares about me, Michael. He just doesn't know it yet."

It makes Michael a little sick, but he thinks that might be at least a tiny bit true. And he thinks, Justin's a little weird. Sometimes he's like Lindsay with a cock – proper and pale and blond and so fucking Anglo-Saxon Elite. And sometimes he reminds Michael of himself – a little hyper, and always looking for true love in every trick. Sometimes, maybe most times, he's like Brian at 16, 17, 18, reborn and made blond and small and short. Maybe that's why Brian can't keep his dick in his pants around this kid. He always did like himself.

They pull up to the curb outside the Novotny abode, and Michael unlocks the doors. "Don't stay up all night jerking off," Michael says and rolls his eyes.

Justin rolls his eyes in return. "Like I'd tell you if I did. Tell David I said hi." He pushes open the door and slides out of his seat belt. Michael wants to make any number of comments about Justin looking for a new sugar daddy now that Brian's busy with Trick [#6982](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%236982). Instead he mutters a goodbye and watches Justin walk back to the house, hands in his jacket again, head high even in defeat.

 

**2\. what's my lesson**

All around me are familiar faces; worn out places, worn out faces.  
Bright and early for their daily races, going nowhere, going nowhere.  
And their tears are filling up their glasses: no expression, no expression.  
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow. No tomorrow, no tomorrow.  
- _Mad World_ , Tears for Fears by way of Gary Jules-

Justin suggests that Melanie's superheroic counterpart could come from an isolated island full of super-powered lesbian warriors and Michael looks at him like he's just sprouted a second head. "Like _Wonder Woman_?" he says, and Justin kind of thinks he might be on the edge of hysteria. "The first and greatest of the superheroines? I can't believe this. My business partner is an uneducated savage."

Justin shrugs and stretches his legs, sliding them under Brian's ridiculously expensive whatever-the-designer-is coffee table. He wants to point out that that's a little, well, dramatic. Instead he sharpens his pencil and watches his hand shed shadows as Michael shakes his head. Silently, he sketches Melanie in white spandex, blindfold over her eyes, scale in one hand and a sword in the other. It's really impressive. He'd be exceptionally proud if the thought of Melanie in tights didn't make him a little sick.

Sitting on the floor of Brian's loft, illuminated by one glowing end table and surrounded by scattered layouts, notes, and sketches, Justin feels like he can't move. These days he always feels like that. He almost doesn't notice it anymore.

"I have an original, mint condition Mego Lynda Carter Wonder Woman doll," Michael says, head lowered and pen in hand. "I got it a year and a half ago and when I told Brian, he called me—" he stops for a moment, and Justin looks up. Michael presses his lips together for a moment. "He called me pathetic," he says, and then his pen is moving again.

"Uh, he calls you pathetic all the time."

"Yeah." Michael pushes his pen across the paper, making jagged, aimless lines. "Wonder Woman always makes me think about Brian, though. Not that I think he should wear a tiara and star-spangled panties or anything." (An image of Brian in starred-and-striped pants flashes through Justin's mind and he almost chokes. It's not as flattering as the Rage costume.) Michael flips his paper over and starts doodling again. "He was there the first time I bought a Wonder Woman comic. I'd always kind of wanted to but I was a little worried about being caught with it because, you know, she's really popular with Drag Queens and all, and I thought people might think I was—" he shifts in place. "Anyway, once I started hanging out with Brian it was different. Everyone was scared of him, so I knew they wouldn't bother me."

Justin runs the edge of his thumb against his bottom lip, trying to imagine Brian that young. He was probably tall even then, unless he was one of those kids who start small and sprout up like a beanstalk overnight. If so, that was a little unfair considering how long Justin had spent waiting for something like that to happen to _him_.

At first, he pictures Brian in designer jeans; it takes a few seconds to remember the rough edges around Brian's polished mannerisms. The tells that say Brian isn't from the world he lives in, now.

Michael says, "He spent a lot of time protecting me. It was like a hobby." He says it with that hero-worship grin he still gets sometimes, even after Portland and Professors.

"Saving people is like a hobby," Justin mutters. He stretches his hand, fighting the cramping in his fingers and the shake of his palm. _Hobbes_ , he thinks, _Fucking Hobbes_. Under his sharpened pencil, the paper bleeds black over JT's near-death experience and it's almost cathartic but not quite.

He imagines Brian, fourteen and still innocent – smiling, laughing, shooting rubberbands at people. Scribbling notes in the margins of his loose-leaf folder. Brian before the walls slammed down and he turned into a fortress.

"Yeah," Michael says, "He saved you, too."

Justin grimaces, just slightly. He remembers. It's not like he can forget.

"Okay." Michael taps his note paper against the edge of the coffee table. "Back to work. So, you're doing the bashing thing right?" He eyes Justin like he thinks there might be a panic attack or something. Everyone looks at him that way at least part of the time.

The only thing is he used to think Brian was Superman – the impossible ideal. Beautiful and untouchable and perfect. Brian, the superhero, working days and saving lives and fucking all night and still coming out the other end with his hair unmussed. He used to think that all Brian needed was time to realize he didn't need to be alone. Now, he's starting to think Brian is more like Batman. He'll protect you, he'll save you, but he does it for his own reasons, and it doesn't mean he's a nice guy. It doesn't mean he wants to talk to you afterward.

Justin sketches the contour of Brian's cheek and thinks about how Michael says that there are people who think Batman is just as crazy, just as malevolent, as the criminals he fights. He thinks of it, and then he feels like an asshole for thinking of it.

"Yeah," he says, "Bats, blood, violence, the cynical turning of our cynical world. I've got it."

Michael pauses, pen in mid-word. "It doesn't have to be bats," he says.

"No, it's fine." _It's fine_ , he tells himself, again. _I think it's fine._

"Okay." Michael glances at him, brow slightly furrowed. "And then Br—uh, Rage, saves him."

Justin bites the edge of his lip and says, "Yeah."

Brian did save him, and not just from Hobbes. Brian also saved him from being crushed under his father's bigoted boot, and from becoming a business major. From a life of grey mornings and empty afternoons and flinching away whenever someone stepped close, and from having to work as a Go-Go Boy (among other things) to pay for PIFA. With all that saving going on, it doesn't make sense that Justin is so ( _restless, empty, sad, hurt, terrified, lonely_ ) pissed at him – what are a few empty gestures compared to all that? And birthdays, dinners, maybe some fucking candles, or even just a kind word for once in his goddamn life... who needs them, anyway?

It's around midnight, and soon Brian will be calling from Woody's, saying " _Are you sure you're not coming out here, Sunshine? You're missing out on Some Stupid Pointless Theme Night That You Couldn't Be Less Interested In If You Tried. Lots of hot guys, the sooner you come, the sooner you_ come."

(He wants to play his new CD, wants to drown in Paganini, but he feels guilty as soon as he thinks of that, too.)

A few feet away, Michael tries not to look like he keeps glancing up, checking if Justin's going to throw a fit or start shaking or something. He does a really lame job of it.

"So," Michael says, "Rage brings JT back to his lair and fucks him and, in the morning, Zephyr wakes up and he's still there." He pauses, and Justin wonders if he's wishing they could trade places – if he still wants to be the one waking up to no-food-in-the-kitchen, eating dinner to no-carbs-after-7 and going to sleep with the scent of some nameless trick lingering in the canyon of empty space between his body and Brian's. Biting the end of his pencil, Justin wonders if anyone would want to trade places with him if they knew that Brian works till it's time to go to Woody's and goes to sleep as soon as he gets home from orgies in the backroom. He wonders if Michael would still be jealous of him if he knew how cold the loft gets sometimes, and how Brian won't turn up the heat because he doesn't like to sweat on his imported sheets. Exceptions made for fucking. Of course.

Michael leans over and peers at Justin's sketches, every one darker than the last. He says, "I guess that's where the issue ends. The first issue, I mean."

Justin takes a deep breath. Brian can be such an asshole.

"Yeah," Justin says, "Well, it has to end somewhere."

Brian calls a few minutes later. Justin scribbles reflections in blood pools under JT's unmoving body and waits for Michael to answer the ringing.

 

**3\. get the call**

I was there when you shone as bright as Bethlehem from afar.  
I was there when you were young and strong and perverted  
And everything that makes a young man a star.  
Oh you were a star.  
- _Surrounded_ , Chantal Kreviazuk-

It seems like winter comes earlier every year. Justin stands at the spinning rack by the door, looking over the newest Archie comics (looking _at them_ is probably more accurate – it's not like he's going to buy one). Behind the counter, Michael flips through the store's last in-stock copy of Rage [#2](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%232). He happens to have it on good authority that it's also the last copy the creators have, and that they'll be going back to the printers again soon. Yet another thing to thank Brian for.

The cover's pretty hot, but he's still not sure it was a good idea.

The heat's kind of wonky in the store, and at the moment it's just down. Shivering under his peacoat, Justin holds a copy of _Sabrina, the Teenage Witch_ in his slightly shaky right hand. "Was the show based on this? Or was this based on the show?"

A few customers glance in Justin's direction, and why the hell does he have to look at _Archie_ comics, anyway? Michael says, "Usually when they make a comic out of a show they make sure to use likenesses," making absolutely certain to sound properly knowledgeable. He wouldn't want the customers to think he's as uneducated in the 4-color way as his friends, after all. Or acquaintances, or whatever he and Justin are these days.

A teenage boy flips through the last copy of _Preludes and Nocturnes_.

"So," Justin says, "It was the other way around, then."

Michael feels the need to roll his eyes.

Outside, sunset is creeping up along the horizon. It's almost time to close the store; Michael figures it's around six, taking his cue from the arcane power of the clock on his cash register. Sometimes, he wants to ask Justin why, exactly, he's started hanging around the comic shop after classes instead of letting Brian pick him up at Daphne's, or the campus center, or the diner, or the local Starbucks for that matter.

It's not that he minds. It's just that, things aren't the same as they were in the B.V. (Before Violinist) times. They talk a little easier, they use more words when they speak, and Michael doesn't want to hit him in the face anymore because Brian seems to be all right (but then again, who can tell with him?).

Still, Michael can't stop thinking things like, _He could have had anyone he wanted. Out of all the guys in Pittsburgh he chose_ you, _and look what you did._

He's been trying not to say _I told you_ so for weeks. Maybe the urge will pass. One day.

Justin returns the Sabrina book to its rack. "I was thinking we could do something where Rage uses his mind-control powers for evil. Like, say... helping a dirty politician rise to power." He laughs almost silently, and presses his lips together, looking at the floor.

"I think we already did that story," Michael says. "Okay, not with Rage on the villain's side, but..."

"I know. I wasn't serious."

"Oh." The lengthening shadows creep across the floor. Michael eyes the clock as he's ringing up the last customers in the store. 6:07.

"I just need to blow off a little steam." Justin wanders to the new releases rack and picks up the latest Wonder Woman __; turns it over in his hands. The door jangles, little bells, and they're alone again. "I don't really know why he's doing it, Michael. I know it's about contacts and power, but I can't even begin to understand going this far." Michael catches the red, white and blue flash of Wonder Woman's star-spangled costume just before Justin flips the book closed. "It's like he's forgotten everything that's really important."

Uncomfortable behind the counter, Michael shifts from one foot to the other and fiddles with pencils. "Well, have you asked him?"

"No. I can't do that, it's his life. It's his choice. Besides, he made it perfectly clear where I stand in comparison to his business decisions last year." Justin flips through Superman, flying with Lois wrapped in his arms, the cold whip of wind in his hair. Michael remembers that feeling, standing on rooftops, always ready to fly.

"There are a lot of things you don't know about Brian yet," Michael says. "He's got a... thing. You know, a money and power thing."

Justin gives him a disbelieving look. "No shit," he says, "I could have told you that two years ago."

"No, that's not what I mean. It's—" There are a dozen things that come to mind offhand, a dozen ways to explain why Brian can't do anything but put himself first and why trying to change that would be like trying to move a mountain with a pinkie toe that doesn't belong to Superman or Wonder Woman or Captain Astro or anyone who could actually move a mountain with a pinkie toe. Justin looks up, and Michael wants to make him understand that can't ever get it, because he never lived the way Brian did. But all that comes to mind is stories and anecdotes and stupid little remarks like, _He doesn't ever want to buy discount socks again, especially at the Big Q._

Justin says, "It's what?" and turns the book sideways. "When did they start drawing packages on superheroes?"

(It's just that Brian used to say he wanted to go out of state for school, and that one day they'd get an apartment together in New York or California and be swinging bachelors and stay up till five in the morning every morning. He had all these dreams: he'd make it into a long list of schools, each more prestigious than the one before. He'd have his choice of anywhere he wanted to go. He'd make connections, and he'd get the fuck out of that town. And he used to come to Michael's window at night, red-eyed and shivering, and say he'd starve, he'd go naked if it meant he could do those things. If it meant he could get away from Jack's beer and Joan's crucifix, his parents' addictions. Michael would push back Brian's sleeves, and check for bruises and wish he could change the world.)

Michael pushes a thumbtack into the edge of the counter. "Stockwell started all that stuff on Liberty Avenue _after_ he took over the campaign. He just doesn't want to lose everything. There's a lot at stake for him."

Justin glances up from the sideways comic. "Yeah," he says, "I could have told you that, too." He flips a page. "Seriously, when did they start—Superman is clearly hung."

"It depends on the artist. I guess that's Phil Jimenez." Michael leans against the counter. "I think it's shitty, you know? What he's doing, I think it's shitty. But he's going to do what he's going to do so I guess you should just accept it. You kind of have to or you end up losing him. I've been accepting it for almost 20 years. Trust me, it gets easier."

Justin smiles a little and puts the book down. "I'm working on it. I just.... Sometimes I wish that his sense of communal responsibility was as well-developed as his sense of personal responsibility."

Michael wrinkles his nose. "He has a sense of personal responsibility?"

6:13.

Justin says, "Sometimes you have to fight back any way you can. Some things are more important than money." Michael thinks of digital art, agi-whatever, propaganda posters lining the streets and how no one ever did figure out where they're coming from.

(As for that list of prestigious schools, Brian did get in, sometimes. But he had to stay in Pittsburgh because he needed scholarships, and he lived with his parents until Junior year. Maybe if he tells Justin all that, he'll get it. Not just the Stockwell thing, but the other stuff too – like why he should have never made Brian love him or, if he had to do that, why he shouldn't have left. Michael wants to say it all, but he can't because they're Brian's stories, and maybe because they're his stories, too.)

Michael pulls the tack out of the counter again. "He'll be here soon, right?"

Justin glances outside and says, "Yeah," just as a sleek, dark green Vette pulls up in front of the store.

"Speak of the devil." Michael pushes the tack back into the counter one more time. "Do me a favor and lock the door behind you. And, tell him I said hi, okay?"

Already half in his jacket, Justin smiles. "I will," he says as he pushes open the door.

 

**4\. as the clever hopes expire**

For the error bred in the bone  
Of each woman and each man  
Craves what it cannot have,  
Not universal love  
But to be loved alone.  
- _We Must Love One Another or Die_ , W.H. Auden-

Justin leans over Michael's table and says, "Brian asked me to move in with him," as he puts down a glass of water. The diner is filled with the low buzz of conversation and a few tables away, a bear in leather biking shorts calls for more water. Justin glances over his shoulder, and holds up his index finger. "Just a second," he says. The guy rolls his eyes and heads for the counter. He's only been back from LA for a day and a half and already it's back to work.

Michael stares at him, wide-eyed, a finger rubbing the surface of his wedding ring. "He did _what_? Jesus, I never thought I'd see the day."

There was a time when Justin would have smirked, would have said he always knew this was coming, but there's something about the cockiness of his teenage years that's starting to seem a little stupid to him. Three years with a guy who called you his 'whatever' will do that to a person. So, maybe it was starting to look a little doubtful. Funny how things change.

Justin grins and slides into the booth across from Michael. "I know," he says, "I've lived with him before but that was always circumstantial. This isn't the same thing."

"Yeah." Michael drops his hand away from the ring and grabs his water. "I'm not really _surprised_. The way he was talking when we were coming back from Toronto, I wouldn't be surprised if he took up polka dancing. I guess cancer has a way of making you think about stuff. "

Traumas, changes, choices, maybe they all come together. Justin leans against the back of the booth. "It wasn't really the way I expected it to be. I always thought if he decided we should be a real couple he'd... I don't know. Say something other than, 'Live with me, it's more convenient.' I guess that was—" The last, fading remnants of youthful daydreams? Justin rolls his eyes. "—a little stupid."

Michael shrugs a little, watching the water in his glass ripple. "It's Brian. He's not really the 'get on your knees and propose' type."

The fluorescent diner light dances off his gold band again, and Justin wonders for a moment what it's like to be with someone who is the get-on-your-knees-and-propose type. Give and take, ups and downs. Justin thinks of Brian and his walls-up, Brian and his no-words-communication. If nothing else, being with Brian Kinney always keeps his mind busy at translating Kinney to Common.

Warm air drifts in from outside with the jingling of bells and the opening door. A young man sashays into the room, orange latex, purple sunglasses and feather boa. Justin rolls his eyes – there's a new princess in town. Great. A feather floats down from the new arrival as he passes and lands on Michael's shoulder. Michael stares at it like it's some kind of alien growth for a second, then flicks it off. Nose wrinkled, he takes a sip of water. "They should get filters here. Or bottles or something. I'm surprised Brian even eats here with this kind of water."

Brian's doing a lot of weird things lately.

Justin pushes his hand over the awkward length of his hair. "Also, I'm going back to LA for a few months. Brett offered me a job on the movie. "

Michael looks like he might choke on his second sip of water. "Did you tell--?"

"Yeah, of course I did. He said he'd be pissed if I didn't go."

"Typical Brian." Michael grins.

And yes, typical of Brian, he said to experience everything. Have fun fun fun. Don't work too hard. Live it up. Fuck a thousand guys and take notes and tell stories into Brian's voice mail every night about all the hot bodies he's seen, all the cock he's sucked and ass he's fucked and guys who have fucked him. Don't take candy from strangers. Don't forget to be safe. Go to a different club each night and if you see a movie star you think is hot, get on your knees and blow him.

And in every word, _Do everything I can't do myself._

"Yeah," Justin says. "Typical Brian. He told me to fuck everyone I see." And Justin said that he would, and decided to think of it as a three-or-four-month long bachelor party: one last hurrah before coming back to "the Pitts" and moving his stuff out of Daphne's apartment for good.

(He might, secretly, wish Brian had told him to keep his pants on, instead.)

Over the rim of his water glass, Michael's eyes are wide and maybe a little suspicious. Debbie used to say that Michael understood the human soul or something like that. For his part, Justin always kind of thought that was bullshit, but Michael says, "You know, just because he asked you to move in doesn't mean he's going to be—"

"You can save the speech." Justin glances at the counter; the bear has disappeared, replaced by the Feather Princess. "I know. Brian's Brian. Brian won't ever change. I know." Except, Justin's never really believed that. He said as much once or twice, or four million times; years ago, sitting in the passenger seat of a gold boytoy car, he said it to Michael too. _Never say never_ , he thinks, and Brian's already changed; is already changing.

It might be stupid, but there's always this little voice in the back of his head saying, _Maybe_.

The slight dishonesty is probably evident, because Michael watches him for a moment before he looks away, frowning slightly.

Justin turns around to check the counter again - from this angle, Princess does kind of have a hot ass. If it weren't for the latex and feathers, he might even be Brian's type. Or Justin's. Sadly, the aforementioned fashion disasters are present and, as such, remain a factor. "I worry about him, though, Michael. I mean, he has cancer—" Had cancer. Has cancer?

" _Had_ cancer." Michael glares at Justin before he looks down at the table again.

"Had cancer. It was only a few months ago, and now I'll be gone for a whole season." Smoke drifts over Justin's shoulder from the booth behind him. That always makes him want to light up, and he's been trying to quit for ages.

Across the table, Michael fiddles with the edge of a napkin. "Yeah," he says, "You'll be in California, but he'll still be here with me, and Ma, and Lindsay, and Emmett and Ted and... well I guess Mel doesn't count but... We'll watch him. He'll be okay."

Sometimes, Justin thinks that's true – that he could just disappear, fade like mist, and Brian would still be hitting the clubs, fucking the hottest guys, putting together the best ad campaigns ever to grace the pages of such and such magazines or whatever TV station. Even without him, Brian would be probably be okay. In a way, it's comforting. In another way entirely, it's a little offensive.

But, it's only sometimes. And anyway, that was yesterday, and this is today. Justin and reaches for his cigarettes, tucked into the pocket of his apron, and thinks things will change. He says, "I know. Just promise you'll call if something goes wrong. It's not like he'd let me know, himself. Sometimes I think he's incapable of picking up a phone, which doesn't surprise me since assholes don't have hands."

He taps a cigarette onto his palm and thinks, if he's serious about quitting, he probably shouldn't carry the pack around.

Michael barks out a laugh, and shakes a fork in Justin's direction. "I'm sure if he were relapsing he'd tell someone."

"Sure he would," Justin says. "He'd tell his doctor."

Michael says, "He'd tell you." But he doesn't sound convinced.

The truth is, Justin only has a few days before he has to leave, and he'd rather be spending them in bed with Brian than at the diner, working. But every time he even starts to consider suggesting they take a day off before he leaves, Brian gets that BusyBusy way about him – typing, or pouring liquid from one container into another. Lighting cigarettes, scoping out the room for passable cock. He's still a little weak from the trip, and his arm is in a sling, but he doesn't need two arms to pin a trick against a bathroom wall.

Justin takes a drag. "He'd probably tell you, too. Now that you already know, there's nothing to hide."

The truth is, when he found out about the cancer, he was a little more surprised that Brian didn't tell Michael than that he hadn't been told, himself.

Michael smiles a little, softly. The way he smiles at Brian when they're off in their own little bubble, sharing their own little world.

The truth is, sometimes he'd cut off a leg if Brian would drop the act with him the way he does with Michael.

Lit cigarette between his lips, Justin takes a drag and thinks about all the stories he's missing, and all the things he doesn't know.

 

**5\. ten thousand nights**

Oh my blue blue caravan, the highway is my great wall.  
For my true love is a man who never existed at all.  
Oh he was a beautiful fiction I invented to keep out the cold.  
But now, my blue blue caravan, I can feel my heart growing old.  
- _Blue Caravan_ , Vienna Teng-

Michael is halfway up the stairs before he notices Justin standing on the landing at the top, silhouetted by the stairway light and leaning against the wall, watching the ceiling. Justin huffs a bit, a short, sharp laugh beneath his breath, and starts to turn away. For a moment, Michael thinks they'll just give each other that sad, knowing smile – that "Brian is such an asshole" smile, before they retreat to their separate rooms. In fact, he's is already picturing himself wrapped in blankets and lost in the contemplation of what it means to lose your best friend. But instead of leaving, Justin runs his hand over his head, ruffling his hair, and says "Sorry about that. I had no idea he was going to show up here."

"Neither did I, but I'm not surprised. He's been bringing his problems to my door at all hours of the night since he was fourteen. It's not exactly shocking that he's still at it." Michael tries to smile, but can't. He'd laugh at the absurdity of it all, but his heart is racing and his hands are shaking, and he doesn’t know whether to hit something or cry, and it's not even remotely funny, really.

Justin scratches at his elbow, watching Michael's hands. "I know. But usually he doesn't show up to blame you for them. At least, I'm assuming he doesn't."

"No, not usually. Although there was this one time, in High School..." Still trying to smile, he can't quite meet Justin's eyes. "But you don't care about that." Even before he says it, he knows it's not really true. Justin cares, of course he does. Brian is everyone's drug of choice. Maybe he's taken so many that he oozes addictive substances from his skin or something. Or maybe he really is a mind-controlling superhero. Whatever it is, he's a hard habit to break. Michael knows a lot about that.

Justin looks down, like he's torn between saying yes and no, between taking another hit and going cold turkey. "No," he says at last, "I guess I don't. What's past is past, right?"

Except the thing about drugs is, they feel good, so fucking good, and you want them, you crave them. Sometimes, if you're too dependent for too long, you need them. So you use them. You give up everything for them. And every time you do, they kill you just a little more.

Justin says, "I used to think one day he'd tell me all about those things."

Pretty poison. Drugs are pretty poisons, and so is Brian.

Michael wants to say that it's all right to still kind of, maybe, yearn a little bit. It's natural, and at least Justin got out now instead of waiting another God-Knows-How-Long and hoping that one day he'd finally hear the words he wants, get the answer he wants. At least it was only five years wasted on dreaming, and not ten, or twelve. Or twenty.

That's what Michael wants to say. Instead, he says, "He's not much of a storyteller."

They say addicts never stop being addicts, even when they stop using. Michael knows a lot about that, too.

Justin says, "You must think I'm an idiot." His voice is soft and open and he's young, so young. Sometimes that's easy to forget.

"I don't think—"

"Well, maybe you should. All these years you've been saying that he won't change; that Brian is Brian and that'll never be any different. I never really believed it. When he asked me to move in, I thought..." (If he wanted, Michael could finish that sentence for him. He could map out every hope and dream and frustration from memory.) Justin presses his lips together. "I really thought things would be different, Michael. I kept thinking, why would he ask if he didn't want anything to change? Pretty stupid of me, actually. I guess he really did just want to cut down on travel time."

"That's not it. He wanted you there because he loves you, you know that." It's only in the past few months that Michael's been able to say that without feeling at least a little nauseous.

"I do know that. It's just—" Justin chews the edge of his bottom lip. "When I was seventeen, that was all I wanted. I thought that would be enough. "

(Brian always stops just when you can see your every dream peeking out just at the edge of the horizon. Just short of giving you what you want.)

"Yeah, I know." Michael rubs the back of his neck. No one knows better than him. Twenty years later, he's still not totally sure he's recovered from his addiction. "But it'll take a lot more than a change of address card to turn Brian 'relationship friendly.'"

"I figured that out when nothing changed."

The house is dark and quiet and filled with chilly air. Michael looks up the few stairs between him and the second floor, and wants to hide in his bedroom, curl under the blankets with Ben and forget all about drunken best friends since high school and how their self-destructive tendencies spill all over him whenever he lets them.

Justin says, "It was weird when you two were arguing. It's like after all these years he still doesn't understand what I really want. Maybe he just can't." (Brian would say, "won't." He'd say it, and he'd never even think about how much worse that makes it.) "Anyway. I didn't want it to spill into your life too."

Michael forces a small smile, and steps up to the landing. "It's okay. I understand," he says.

And Brian will never give in, never give at all. He'll always be immovable, relentless, unchanging – the eternal Peter Pan, and he'll never stop. Never step down, and they'll pull his last trick from his cold, dead hands. Probably pretty soon; with the way he does drugs, he'll be lucky to see fifty. Yet another thing no one knows better than Michael.

Gaze to the floor, Michael wanders down the hall, hands useless at his side. Justin trails behind him then stops at the door that used to be Hunter's. Just outside his bedroom, Michael looks down the hall at the young man standing there, quiet and resolved and sad. "You'll be all right," Michael says, "Brian always said you were the ultimate survivor. It sounded like a video game or something, but I guess you are."

Justin licks the edge of his lips and says, "I know. He always said that to me, too." A moment later, he pauses halfway into his room and says, "I hope it doesn't ruin your friendship, Michael. That shouldn't have anything to do with this."

Hand on the doorknob, Michael stops moving in mid-twist. He thinks about months of lying about Melanie and Lindsay. He thinks of money slipped to Lindsay so she can work against him. He thinks of snide remarks just inside the cold, still remains of the shut-down Babylon. Attacks on everything he is, and everything he's chosen. Conformist, infecting, judgmental, pious prick. Faux heterosexual traitor. Abandoner.

He thinks of Brian standing in his kingdom, refusing to leave and trying to trap the world inside with him.

It's not that he doesn't understand. Babylon has always been Brian's religion. It's just that, these days, he's such a fucking zealot.

"I don't know," Michael says, "I think it might have been ruined a long time ago."

In the end, all anyone can do is save themselves. All they can do is walk away.

 

**6\. all the brooks and soldiers**

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,  
The vision seriously intends to stay;  
If I could tell you I would let you know.  
- _If I Could Tell You_ , W.H. Auden-

Justin calls the loft at eight in the morning, bleary voiced and still half-drunk with sleep. The phone rings twice while he's filling his coffee pot with water, and again while he's measuring grinds into a filter, and then Michael answers the phone with a "Morning, Justin." All Justin can think is, _What in the world is he doing there at 8 in the morning?_ So he says, "What in the world are you doing there? It's 8 in the morning."

On the other side of the line, Michael runs water and bangs dishes. "I'm making breakfast. Brian and I went out last night and now he's half-dead and in the shower. I wouldn't be surprised if he drowns in there."

Justin runs through a mental list of the places they could have gone, but comes up blank. They're both a little old for Boy Toy, and in a stunning display of hypocrisy Brian has always looked down on the pretentious, so Pistol is probably out. Popperz would be a possibility if Brian weren't still holding some kind of five-year-old boy grudge against it for nearly bankrupting him, and he's not _really_ into leather... Actually, Justin's never known him to have any interest in any club aside from Babylon.

Lighting a cigarette, he thinks about how if he'd really stopped to think about that, he probably wouldn't have been surprised at all the shit that happened after the bombing.

Another bang snaps him out of his thoughts. Justin takes a drag.

Michael curses under his breath. "Fucking pans... um, still there?"

"Yeah." Justin takes a drag and watches the smoke float up, under his nose and around his face. "Just thinking about that. Where the hell did you go? I didn't think Brian liked clubs that weren't Babylon."

Silence for a few seconds. Michael clears his throat. "Uh, it's – it reopened a few days ago, didn't Brian tell you?"

Eyes closed, Justin doesn't know whether to curse Brian or himself. "No," he says. "I haven't actually talked to him in a while."

"How long is a while?"

It's 8am, and entirely too early to be avoidant. Justin squeezes his lips together into a thin line. "Since I left," he says.

Michael says, "Oh."

Two months and no word. At first, when he left, Justin kept waiting for the phone to ring. Fingers perpetually closed around the receiver, tapping out patterns on the desk at his lousy fucking temp job, he kept hoping that it would. Maybe he just didn't want to be the one forcing it all the time. Maybe for once he wanted Brian, sane Brian, level-headed Brian, not-suffering-from-PTSD Brian, to make that first step first. Maybe, even after all that, he still thought something might change.

After the two weeks of silence, he thought it probably wouldn't happen. After that, he knew Brian wasn't being dramatic when he said they might never see each other again. Or, well, he wasn't just being dramatic.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Justin stares up at nothing and says, "I'm surprised you didn't know."

"Well, I knew you two weren't really in touch that much but I didn't know it was that bad. He doesn't really like to talk about you, so I just don't bring it up if I can help it."

Justin kicks the floor. "He doesn't like to talk about me. That's great."

"It's not like that." Michael says that a lot. "I think he just... doesn't want to—he misses you. You know how Brian is."

"Yeah, " Justin says, "I know how Brian is." He's kind of tempted to start naming off all the shit that Brian is, but this early in the morning holding a list that long in his head gives him a headache.

In retrospect, he should have seen this coming. Or not coming, as the case may be. It's like LA, writ large: Brian, always convinced that wherever Justin's going, he'll never come back. Always trying to let him fly. Always selfish and self-absorbed, except when he suddenly turns into a fucking martyr. He should have known the second Brian said, 'or never' that he was being released into the wild again; that Brian would never fight for him. It took years to realize that sometimes not fighting says "I love you" louder than picking up a sword ever could. Even now, irrationally, it stings a little.

Justin rubs the back of his neck. Morning, still grey and featureless, lingers outside his window and clouds up his head. He probably should have gone to sleep before 4am. He and Brian probably should have decided what the hell they were doing before he got on the plane so they didn't sit around for months, each waiting for the other to say "Yes, I still want you."

"Anyway, he should be out of the shower soon." Michael turns off the water at last, and the quiet on the other side of the line is deafening.

Justin takes another drag and blows smoke rings into the air. "All right."

The quiet between them is a little long; a little weird. Justin takes three drags and flicks ashes into the sink.

"Are you smoking? I thought you quit."

Not really, but he kept meaning to. "Moving is really fucking stressful. Especially when you're crashing on the couch of some girl you barely know and previously only said hello to once or twice at one or another of your best friend's boring college mixers." At least he's not chain-smoking anymore. Usually.

Justin wanders to the window and looks down at the sprawl of cars, struggling through the streets and splitting the morning with their horns. The streets are dingy grey and Manhattan never looks quite as exciting during the day. He wants to yell out the window, point out that it's too early for road rage, and honking like that is illegal anyway. In the end, he goes back to the kitchen to check the coffee.

Michael laughs a little. "I can imagine." Bang – another pot? Bang – something else. Michael says, "I guess you miss him, too."

Cigarettes don't last nearly long enough. "Yeah, I do."

"Yeah." The other side of the line goes quiet again – so quiet, for so long, that Justin nearly asks if Michael's still there. Finally, Michael says, "He wasn't going to reopen the club, even after you left. I went back to the loft, and he was just sitting around, all quiet and... I don't know. It was weird." Justin imagines Brian sitting on the edge of the bed, or lounging on the couch, doing nothing. Surrounded by all that stark white and minimalist everything. Going nowhere. It's depressing.

Michael's voice drops to a near-whisper. "So I brought him back to Babylon, and it was all ruins and the walls were—it was really awful. I kept thinking about when we were kids, and we'd go there and it'd be all full of all these shirtless, wiggling guys. It was my favorite place in the world, but I didn't love it as much as he did."

"No one loves Babylon the way Brian does," Justin says. He doesn't say, _And Brian doesn't love anything the way he loves Babylon._ But he's thinking it.

He can almost hear Michael nodding. "Yeah. I was thinking, after everything that happened with Prop 14 and you two, and me and him too. I was thinking about how things change and maybe some things just don't. Maybe it's better if they don't."

"You always used to tell me that he'd always fuck everyone and go out every night." Justin closes his eyes again, remembering the endless cycle of that conflict – dream vs. dream and ideal vs. ideal. Remembering why he tries not to think about it. It's not like it's gone away. "You always said that Brian would never change."

"Yeah, I knew he wouldn't but I guess I always kind of thought he should."

For years, Justin watched Brian, always waiting for that shift - always imagining he saw change starting in every move. He'd dream of commitment ceremonies and wedding bands. Houses in the country. A thousand teenage pipedreams that he always told himself couldn't come true, but still kind of expected to have one day. He'd tell himself that even Brian couldn't live in Neverland forever, and if he just _waited_... and he did wait. He waited for five years, and had one hell of a long party in the meantime.

Maybe he was just confusing what he wanted with what should be.

Justin chews the edge of his bottom lip. "I know what you mean," he says.

Maybe some people just aren't meant for that.

It's a strange thing, loving Brian.

So Michael asks how he is, and where he's staying. Justin tells him he's living with Daphne's friend in her little apartment in the Village with its yellow wallpaper and this huge, fluffy sofa that pulls out into the only marginally comfortable sofabed Justin's ever slept on. Not that he's slept on all that many.

"It's warm," he says, "It's a little weird, but... I like it."

He tells Michael about how the knob sticks a bit when he tries to turn on the hot water in the shower, and how the kitchen is smaller than Brian's and there's actual food in the fridge. The downside is that the television is smaller and that's a little frustrating since he doesn't know anyone or have anything to do but work and watch TV.

The other downside is having a straight chick for a roommate, but only one bathroom.

"I'm getting a little addicted to BRAVO," he says. "Don't tell Brian. It's really embarrassing."

Michael laughs, barely audible over the drip-drip and boiling noises from the coffee machine. "So, you're having a good time?" Michael says, and his voice is strange. Maybe a little suspicious.

Justin says, "Yeah. It's someone else's apartment, but I guess it's good."

"You know," Michael clears his throat a little. "When you left, Brian told me that it was probably over. He said you two just wanted different things." (Justin laughs, softly.) "I told him you loved him, and that was probably enough. I mean if you can have someone you _really_ love, are really _in love with_ , why would you let stupid shit like random guys he fucks and doesn't remember in the morning get in the way of that? Why would that even matter?"

Justin wants to say, _That's easy for you to say. You and Ben are monogamous_ , but he doesn't.

Michael says, "Anyway, it's good that you at least get the choice."

For some reason, Justin kind of wants to apologize.

"But I don't know." Michael turns on the water again. "He knows you better than I do, so maybe he's right." One. Two. Three beats of silence. "Is he?"

 

**7\. talk about weather**

The sun may come up and go down again,  
And I'll still swear it's a beautiful life.  
- _Beautiful Life_ , Charlotte Martin-

( _Once upon a time, there was this stupid kid and he met the love of his life over hot lunch at High School. They were fourteen._ )

Michael is sitting in the waiting room and gathering his things when Justin arrives. Black coat and leather gloves, he's still dressed for those brutal New York winters and pale as he is, he's almost white. If it weren't for the clothes and all that yellow hair, he'd just fade into the the walls. Justin puts his Timbuk2 on the floor with shaking hands. He says, "I got your call," as he rubs them together. His voice shakes, too.

Michael clutches a magazine to his chest. "I didn't know if you had, but you're here so I pretty much... figured." He feels tiny, and helpless, and lost.

Justin pushes his hand through his hair. "How is he?"

"Um, they don't know yet. But, I'm about to go back to the loft and pick up some stuff for, you know, when he's out of—" Running his finger down the edge of the magazine's spine, Michael worries about paper cuts until he remembers that the other side is the one with sharp edges. He can't think. He can't think and his head is all sirens and surgeons.

( _He doesn't even remember what he said, but he remembers hazel eyes and this sharp, tight smile. It didn't make any sense how well they fit together, but they did. He thought they'd always have each other. Always._ )

Justin glances down the hall and rubs his thumb against his other thumb. "I'll come with you."

The walk from the waiting room to the car is silent aside from Justin's bag bouncing against his side. His keys jingle like little bells as he walks. Michael has Brian's Vette waiting; Justin rests the bag against his feet in the passenger side and stares out the window as they pull out of the parking lot and onto the street.

Five minutes out, Michael's hands are still trembling against the steering wheel. "He'll be all right."

Outside, they're surrounded by the dimming light of dusk and the streetlights flicker on, one by one. Justin says, "Of course he'll be all right. He's always all right."

( _Patches of bruising. A pocket bible with Garfield cartoons scribbled in the margins. Guitars and bad songs. Their first CD, paid for with the pooled remnants of their allowances. Cher. Of course. They told each other fairy tales in the dark with their eyes closed, fingers clutching each other under the blankets._ )

"I can't believe he stopped going to his checkups." It's colder than Michael expected, but then he hasn't left the hospital since noon. "I can't believe he'd do that and not even tell me." He turns down Strawberry Way, and the lights are blurry in his eyes.

"I can," Justin says.

"You're right, of course I can believe it. God, he is such an _asshole_." He clutches the steering wheel hard. "He may think it's okay to play Russian fucking Roulette with his life, but he's not the only one who gets shot if the bullet gets blown. Fired. Whatever, I mean, he's not the only one affected." Everything's hazy; in an intersection he nearly rams the side of another car. The screech of his wheels and the blare of a departing horn jolt him through his heels, but he still can't see.

( _They went to college, but not together. One went to Carnegie Mellon, where he'd meet his own personal princess of the WASPs. The other signed up for community college, where he took Elementary Algebra and said he was taking Calculus. No one really believed it. No one called him on it either._ )

"Michael. You should probably pull over and let me drive."

He wants to say that he can't do that – that he has to get back to the loft and pick up clothes and Brian's laptop and his cell phone, and maybe a bottle or two of VOSS, but he can't see and he still can't think. So he takes a breath, and pulls over. He throws up by the side of the road, nothing but water and acid. Justin drives the rest of the way.

The loft is like some strange, mystical space where things constantly shift but everything always looks the same anyway. Brian's gone through four sofas in the past four years, and God only knows how many desks. When Michael flips on the lights, Justin says, "I don't recognize that dining table." He doesn't sound surprised. Brian himself is a constant, but everything around him changes. Maybe he channels the human need for growth and evolution into his furniture catalogues or something. It's the only thing that makes sense.

( _One dropped out after three semesters. The other got a Bachelor's in Marketing with a Psychology minor, and then a Master's in Communication and Media._ )

Michael goes into the bathroom to rinse out his mouth, and when he gets back Justin is sitting on the wooden rim around the bed, smoking and playing with the condoms on the nightstand. In handfuls he picks them up. One by one he lets them fall.

"I remember the first time he brought me here," Justin says. "He stood right over there and stripped down to his bare ass and asked if I was coming or going. He was dripping Evian all over the floor. I was so scared I didn't even realize how weird that was."

"He does that sometimes, when he takes too much shit and gets all overheated. Or when he's showing off."

Justin drops a condom. "I know."

"Yeah." The heat is off, and it's cold everywhere. Michael sits next to Justin, staring at the stairs down to the TV area.

( _So time went on, and things changed. Every year it made less sense that they even knew each other, even kept in touch. That stupid kid, he wasn't a kid anymore but his heart still squeezed every time they were close. His skin still burned every time they touched. And the boy with the hazel eyes, he never tried to move away._ )

Justin takes a drag and exhales a stream of smoke. "He'll be all right."

Michael's throat is closed. All he can do nod and breathe.

"So," Justin says, dropping the last condom. "What about you?" He lies back in the bed, eyes to the ceiling. In the loft there's always that light scent of cigarettes, but now the room smells like an ashtray. "Tell me about the first time you saw this place."

( _They were each other's defenders. They were each other's home._ )

And the loft is so still, so empty. Everything they do echoes. Michael wonders why he's never noticed that before. "Don't do that, Justin. Stop saying goodbye to him, he's going to be fine." His fingers clutch the edge of the bed so hard his knuckles turn white.

"I know. He'll be fine. Just humor me. Tell me something I don't know."

Tendrils of smoke drift over Michael's face, and he wants to cry. Maybe it's just the smoke.

( _Then this kid came along and he was scared, so fucking scared, that everything would change. And it did. But not really._ )

There are so many things he could say. He has so much history trapped inside his skin.

( _Time went on, and things changed, but they didn't. They lived._ )

Justin says, "Tell me a story."

 

end.


End file.
